Constellation
by midtowngirl89
Summary: Literati. His name is Destiny. Season 7 oneshot.


Summary: Literati. His name is Destiny. Season 7 oneshot.

Disclaimer: You know the drill.

A/N: Hi. It's been 6 months since I've written. I needed to write this. I write for me, with the hope that someone, even just one person, will get something from what I write. So, enjoy! If you feel so inclined, please review. Thanks, midtowngirl89

* * *

His name is Destiny. Logan calls to say he can't make it; Bobbi shouts, "Sorry Rory, darling!" You've already driven two hours to this sleek Manhattan bar, so you stay.

His name is Destiny and he orders a scotch. From the weak lights and his curved back you see only shadows of his nose and jaw. You squint, and maybe some pixilated stubble appears on his chin when the spotlights oscillate.

He spills his drink. Across the counter the sticky liquid courses like rain through a gutter and dribbles on your bare arm. He lifts his head for an apology, pushing the midnight hair from his eyes.

You know this face. But…but here, in this bar with the mod stools and embellished napkins, you aren't sure.

"Sorry --- " he murmurs, then stops, his lip dragging slightly to the left. The drumming from the stage dwindles. You don't say his name, because perhaps this isn't real. Lately, you've been living in dreams, and the scene and his voice are familiar in sleep.

"What are you doing here?" Your voice trembles a little, an interrupted vibrato in your throat, and you cough, feeling the heat of your breath on the back of your hand. He hesitates, like maybe he didn't hear you, and you wonder if you even spoke it out loud. With his head leaning towards yours, "What are _you_ doing here?"

You stutter. You shake your bangs from your eyes ---

"I was joking. I was being difficult. I thought you'd still be able to tell." His breath delays, overlapping with yours until he pulls himself back into the chair. "I had a meeting, earlier."

"Oh. For your book?"

"Yeah, for my new book," he answers.

"You wrote another book." Your mouth twists, confused, and you shiver in the satin of your cocktail dress.

"It's more of a sequel. Same girl, same city…" _Me_, you inhale. A misfired thought. The vanity settles uncomfortably in your veins.

"That's amazing, really. I was just meeting…a friend. But they couldn't make it."

"Logan." He blows the name from his lips like cigarette smoke. Your eyes sting.

"He works in the city, now. I don't mind, really; anything is better than London," you insist, filtering a light laugh through your teeth.

"London. Huh." You wish he'd stop with the two syllable L words and that knowing smirk on his face. You steal a glance at your watch.

"It's late…I should probably go," you attempt.

"It's 10."

"I've got a long drive home," you remind him, slipping your purse over your forearm.

"I can take you, if you want." His eyes meet yours, and you're swallowing his cologne as he rises.

"What about your car?"

"Took the train."

"It'll be tomorrow before you get home."

"I have nothing in the morning," he competes, holding the door as you pass through.

You push the hot metal keys into his palm.

* * *

In your car, in the contoured seats, you watch the city lights blur through the glass. He drives fast, in the left lane, then the right, smearing the dotted white lines with your tires. You watch his hands; he jiggles the heat knob until you hear the heavy wheezing of the air vents.

The radio is a haze of broken frequencies. You opt for a CD. You can't decide, so you blindly choose from the wallet in the glove compartment.

"I like this song," he begins suddenly, clearing his throat and forcing the accelerator to the floor.

"You made me this CD," you respond. He laughs into the dark, exposing the white outline of his teeth.

The freeway is exit after exit, a number line, and your eyes blink with heavy sleep. You wake to the rumble of the car on gravel.

"Are you going to kill me? Because I don't think I can fit in the trunk," you yawn, stumbling out the side door. He leans his hips against the hood, pulling his arms behind his head. You blush when you catch the tan skin of his lower back.

"I just need to stretch." The stars are crystals in the sky, a sparkling pattern that you miss in New Haven. "Andromeda," he points, "The chained princess." You follow his finger and make out a blurred figure.

"How did you know that?"

"I read a book, once," he smirks, grasping the door handle. "We can go, if you want."

You nod off again, your head falling dangerously close to his shoulder, and when you wake, he's rolling a cigarette between his fingers. You raise your eyebrows ---

"I quit. It's just a nervous habit."

He pulls the car around the off ramp.

* * *

"I think you took the wrong exit," you say, straining to see. When he circles the next corner, you realize: "Oh."

"Exit 28, right? You said home and…oh. God. Oh. I'm an idiot…you meant…" he falters. You feel him engage the break and he rests his head on the steering wheel.

"It's fine---"

"You meant your apartment. _His_ apartment. I'm an idiot. Look, I'll just turn around…"

"No, it's okay, really. Really," you persist.

In the driveway, he takes the keys from the ignition and you think you've experienced this a thousand times over.

On the porch, he apologizes again.

"How will you get home?" you ask, prodding through your bag for the house key.

"Walk."

"To Philly?"

"I'm staying with Luke for the night," he explains.

"Oh. Well, you should come in for coffee…it's the least I can do, for driving me here. My mom is in Paris; we won't be waking anyone." The door creaks as you turn the knob.

He doesn't want coffee, he says, but water would be great. You're torn between the plastic Power Rangers cup and the Hello Kitty mug when he calls your name.

Standing in your room, running his fingers over the spines of your books, he says, "Have you read them all?"

"Probably twice," you laugh, "But not in years."

"I always liked that we could talk about books."

Three 'o clock in the morning, and he's face down on your couch. His hair falls in his eyes, and his shirt is a wrinkled mess, but he's smiling against the fabric.

You spread a blanket over his back.

* * *

Under the porch light, the gold in his eyes makes you shake.

"Thanks, you know…for letting me stay. Sleep." He gestures towards the house with his shoulder.

"Of course…" You scramble for words but the charcoal sky is smothering you. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow? We could have breakfast, or something, maybe pancakes unless you don't like them, or eggs, if you want…"

He grins and lightly touches his fingers to yours.

_Destiny: The predetermined, usually inevitable or irresistible, course of events…_


End file.
